If you really must know…
then I could tell it. Or write it. I’m good at that, I think. I’m the kind of guy whose life has never been overwhelming legendary but has been told his stories are whole-heartedly epic. I’m the kind of guy who can tell a story that is 78% true and 22% embellishment, but tell it so convincingly that he himself forgets which parts actually happened and which didn’t. I’m the kind of guy who is wary of eating everything bagels because of the off-chance that he runs into someone he knows or comes across a girl he may kiss later on. I’m the kind of guy who is absolutely terrified of looking around a room in fear that a girl will think he is checking her out, but the kind of guy who, for some reason or another, will be approached by a girl because he seemed “attractive and nice,” but mostly attractive. And therefore, I’m the kind of guy who has tremendous luck with girls despite the fact that they intimidate him out of his mind. But that’s not too much of a surprise because look at me, but also look at me. I’m the kind of guy who can spend up to forty-three minutes fixing his hair so it looks like bedhead, and the kind of guy who goes running everyday simply because it makes him look fit. I’m a masochist in that regard. I’m the kind of guy who derives his persona from characters like Tony Stark or Han Solo, so he appears cool and confident, but when it comes time to dance at a party will lean back against a wall to avoid inevitable embarrassment. I’m the kind of guy who gets extremely shaky after three cups of coffee but will continue to drink more because he figures that he’s bound to develop an addiction to something, and elected caffeine as the most suitable drug. And I’m the kind of guy who will spend hours on end drafting and re-drafting, just to revert back to the original draft because he’s scared it’ll look like he tried too hard.
But I’m not OCD, I swear. I think my mother may be though. For instance, no matter how clean my room used to be back in high school, I would have to straighten it for eons until it met her uptight and perfectionist standards. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a great mother, it can just be hard sometimes dealing with standards that are completely impossible to meet. My father, on the other hand, is more easy-going. Not to say he doesn’t put his foot down, because he does for sure, but what I mean is that I can talk to him about things I wouldn’t even dream of talking about to my mother. He also introduced me to Star Wars back when I was around five, so that’s pretty important too. My mother has told me a lot about what my father says about me in confidence, and from what I gather, I wouldn’t say I’m his favorite child by any means, but I’m for sure his favorite.
My brother is six years older than me and my sister is two years younger. What this means is that I have a really bad case of the Middle-Child Syndrome. For those of you who may not know about this, it is a syndrome caused by the fact that being the middle child sucks because everyone gangs up on you. Not only that, but I’m in the worst position imaginable. I mean, I love my brother and sister dearly, but look at me, and also look at me. My brother will forever be a favorite because he is the first born and that just gives him an upper-hand in general. My parents always wanted a daughter, so my sister will always be the princess of the family. I, on the other hand, am just son 1.25. Yes, you read that correctly, 1.25, as in I’m not even a whole number upgrade from my brother. I’m just another son who lost the attention at the age of two due to his sister’s untimely birth.
But then again, that’s not completely true. My father tells me I have a lot of potential because I know how to talk. Not that my siblings don’t know how to talk, I mean OBVIOUSLY they know how to talk, but they don’t know how to talk. From a very young age, I learned that if I talk long enough and if I talk hard enough, I could BS my way out of any situation. In fact, I’m so good that I convinced a bunch of people my freshman year that people tell me I look like an Asian Tom Cruise with Channing Tatum’s body, and thus springboarded to the head of the popular crowd. I’m so popular it gets tedious at times with my phone blowing up from all these girls wanting to hang out and kids asking to be friends on Facebook.
Anyway, as I was saying, I really am godly when it comes to BS-ing. Unless I’m talking to my mother. Then my father tells me I should stop talking because she has like a BS-sensor or something like that, and I always end up digging myself a grave in the form of a three-month grounding. But my father says that’s only because I inherited my ability to BS from her. Anyway, I could talk forever, I really could, but I feel like that’s enough background information for now. How much of this recounting is true, I couldn’t tell you. It’s from my perspective, after all, and I’m just the kind of guy who can tell a story that is 78% true and 22% embellishment, and forget which parts are real and which parts are absolute BS.
